


"He seemed pretty into sacrifice."

by dreaminghour



Category: Killjoys (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, BDSM, Biting, Bloodplay, Cutting, Edgeplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Self-Harm, self-injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreaminghour/pseuds/dreaminghour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What exactly did Alvis the penitent see in John when he witnessed the blessing?</p><p>Set between ‘Come the Rain’ and ‘Enemy Khlyen’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"He seemed pretty into sacrifice."

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for spoilerific trigger warnings.
> 
> (I'm looking for a beta for a longer Killjoys fic, please send me a message wherever you have an account and can get me. I'd love to have a second pair of eyes.)

“ _Our pain is your redemption. Let us suffer for your sins.”_

* * *

“Please, Uncle, a blessing?”

With a deft movement, Alvis the Penitent cut himself on the flesh above his heart, a fresh cut below an older, and with the blood that flowed anointed the young woman who knelt before him.

“Rise child. Like the leaves, you will reach the sun. The roots grew deep.”

“May the Mother protect us all.” She smiled at him, a wane flicker that fled as soon as it appeared and she rose unsteadily. Alvis gave his hand to support her, squeezing it before she scurried off into smoky streets.

He frowned at the blood, already drying on his chest, and covered the cuts with his mantle. Turning back the way he’d been going, he saw a young RAC agent, wearing all black, leaning against a pylon of the upper elevated track. His arm rested loosely on the holster of his gun.

“In need of a blessing, Killjoy?”

“What?” John Jaqobis shifted uncomfortably. “No.” He crossed his arms and stood up straight, sniffed and looked away. “Just happened to be around.”

“Here?” Alvis moved closer. There was a palpable shift in his demeanor now, and anger flared, if only for a moment. “Near the breathing mouth of the mines? Looking for someone new to martyr yourself for?” He leaned in close, unflinching.

The intrusion on John’s personal space was almost like the monk had pushed him back, it was so repulsive. He stood steady, but Alvis saw that John’s hand was back on his holster.

“Go back to your pretty ship,” Alvis whispered and swerved around John, continuing on.

John fell into step beside the scarback and smiled, having already brushed off the slight. “Rebellion not going so well these days?”

Alvis tried his best not to show his annoyance. “If you wanted a rankling discussion of politics why didn’t you just say so.”

“I think you made all your points, and I don’t like to beat it into the ground.” He paused as a look of disgusted realization came over him. “You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you.”

“We suffer so that others may find redemption and, thus, peace. We don’t enjoy the pain of others.” His hands naturally folded into a meditative pose at his stomach.

“If the Trees gave a crap about us the Qresh wouldn’t exploit this moon in the first place.”

“I thought you didn’t want to get into politics.”

John fidgeted with the strap on his holster. “I had to get off the ship because it's _occupied_ , all right?” He shoved his hands into his pockets violently, sweeping the scene as they all did. Bounty hunters, company guards, soldiers, even rebels. If you wanted to stay alive you stayed alert. “We got a nice payload, and with all the joy she got, Dutch found a Sexer who actually insisted on a clean bed. So I couldn’t stay there. Too weird.”

Alvis didn’t say a word, just continued to walk beside John as he stewed a little more.

“Besides, I’ve got… things… shopping for the ship.”

“John, you know you have my confidence,” Alvis said. “If you need to speak to someone about Dutch or your brother—”

“I’m fine.”

They looked each other in the eye, walking at a slower pace than even the jakked up among the crowd. The scarback may have recognized something in the killjoy’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything. John was the first one to look away, shrugging it off.

“So, Alvis. Where you headed anyway?”

“I go where I am needed.”

John huffed a sigh.

“This seems as good a way as any.”

John squinted at him a little, trying to read something, maybe, or figure something out. “Tell me— you know any place better than the Royale to get a drink?”

“At this hour?”

“Didn’t think so.” John patted him on the back and ushered him along grimy alleys.

* * *

“Hey, hey, hey!” John dashed ahead as he saw Pree locking up the front doors of the Royale.

“Oh, sober up, Jaqobis, I have to go raid the local dealer for some overpriced hokk after the number Killian and Em did on it for a number two warrant yesterday.” He pointed an accusing finger at John, steamrolling any chance at retort. “You hired guns only have to two modes, destructive and recharge.” He hesitated for a split-second, turning to give John the side-eye. “Don’t suppose I should put a warrant on those two.” Alvis ambled along then, and Pree rose his eyebrows. “Ah, making an early morning of it. I suppose I can spare a bottle for you two, in exchange for protecting what’s left of my bar. Help yourself. Not the top-shelf today, though, I think.” And he let them slip in before he reengaged the lock.

Surprisingly, Alvis winced as he sat down.

“Been scarring yourself a bit too much lately?” John smirked and poured them both a shot of the second shelf hokk.

“I don’t mind the pain,” Alvis said and downed the shot in one. “It’s humbling to feel pain.”

John drank his own and poured another. “Why don’t you just get them cauterized?”

“I do, sometimes.” Alvis shurgged and downed the second shot. John poured another. “Slow down, would you?”

“I will,” John said, snapping back his third shot. With a swift motion John unhooked the mantle from around Alvis’s shoulders and exposed the scabbing wounds on his back. “Yowza!”

Alvis gave a little hiss and poured them both another shot.

“What does a blessing do, exactly?”

Alvis looked a little confused at this.

“I mean, do they really _see_ something or…”

“Is it all just in their minds?”

“Yeah.”

“The truth is, killjoy—” Alvis leaned in conspiratorially “— it’s all in our heads.”

John pushed him away. “Bah— but your pain isn’t.”

“Like I said, it grounds us. Pain is but a humble offering, to think of—”

“But _how_?” He gesticulated.

“In practical terms, to see the invisible pains that we feel transfered into a physical form—”

“Why not just endure the pain themselves, though?”

Alvis was tempted into taking him seriously, and lowered his voice to a somber timbre as he answered.

“Why not, indeed. Many who think just so become monks themselves.”

That was too much. John held his hands up in surrender. “It’s just a question, man. I’m not going to join up.”

“You’re already a part of the rebellion, John.” Alvis pointed out. His fifth shot remained untouched.

“Nope. A neutral party, neither Company nor rebellious bad boy.” He indicated the monk beside him with a significant look and a raised eyebrow. John threw back his fifth and was about to pour another, but Alvis put his hand over the glass.

“Have you never been given a blessing?”

“Done pretty well by myself, ain’t I?” John smirked and reached for Alvis’s glass. “You gonna drink that?”

Alvis caught John’s wrist. “Would you like one?”

“What?” John quirked an eyebrow but his smile faltered. “Why would I need a _blessing_?” He said it like it was as appealing as a picnic in the Badlands.

“Why _wouldn’t_ you need a blessing?” Alvis released his grip on John’s wrist. “Indulge me. Aren’t you curious as well?” He was watching John carefully, the hint of a smile in his eyes.

John cleared his throat nervously, smile back but empty. “Isn’t it sacrilegious or whatever? I mean, I have it pretty good.”

When Alvis stood, his robe slid off the barstool the ground, pooling in a yellow puddle by his bare feet.

 _Had he really been barefoot this whole time?_ John wondered. He got off his own stool and waited expectantly and then nervously before Alvis the penitent. They were eye to eye, but now, like this, John couldn’t hold eye contact. The gaze that Alvis laid upon him wasn’t exactly accusatory but it pierced him and recalled a lot of bad memories. Others had tried to pry words from him with similar looks, but Alvis might be the only one who actually gave his nerves a run for their money.

“You have to kneel, John,” Alvis said.

“Oh. Right.” Kneeling didn’t feel right but he swallowed whatever kept him upright.

Alvis touched John’s chin, lifting his face a little, but didn’t say a word. He moved slower now, placing the knife upon his finger and carefully seeing that he placed the blade above the other two cuts. John had been there for the first, saw the blessing with the second and was now to be blessed with the third. John watched the cut quickly appear, blood growing from the clean line, pale scars visible beneath.

_What were the words that the faithful said?_

“And the roots grew from the Mother tree to protect us all.”

John’s eyes drifted shut and with a sticky thumb, Alvis anointed him with his blood. “And the roots grew,” he rasped, but he hadn’t felt anything. Alvis gripped his chin again and John opened his eyes again: blood running down, pale skin, white scars. He looked up. “I didn’t feel anything.”

Alvis held out a hand and helped John stand. “You can’t be pushed into faith. You probably just aren’t receptive to it yet. Some people never get there.”

John smirked. “I guess its different for each of us. The faithless and…” he sized Alvis up. “those willing to sacrifice themselves for others.”

“Martyrdom isn’t that distant. You must have faith in something to keep on giving.”

The look Alvis was giving John unnerved him a little.

“Yeah. Well.” He slung his coat on. “I’m sure you have places to be.”

Alvis shrugged. “There’s always time for a drink.” He bent down to pick up his mantle and slung it over an arm.

“Is it different if you’re the one cutting the skin?” John blurted out.

“What?”

John scowled. “I mean, if I were a scarback and hurt myself on purpose, like you do, does the faith feel any different? Did it change for you?”

“Well, it really relies on the initial faith of the practitioner…” his words slowed as he thought about what John said, looking at him quizzically.

“Oh, right. That would make sense.” John nodded but was still scowling.

“John.” He looked up as Alvis said his name. “Are you curious about the pain?”

Silence. John gulped, Alvis saw clearly as his throat contracted and his adam's apple slid up and down. “No.” He shifted back and forth. “I mean I get hurt all the time.”

Alvis pulled out the finger knife and dipped it into the hokk before passing it to John. He took it with surprise.

“Where should I...?”

Alvis stepped close again, plucking the knife back. John’s coat still hung open, letting Alvis push it off his shoulders. John quickly pulled off his own shirt and they both stood barechested. It was cold, his skin crawled and his hair seemed to stand on end.

“Don’t cut here, here or here.” Alvis indicated several sensitive areas with a light touch that made John shiver. “Here and here are okay, but you’re safest here.” He touched John a few more times, who chuckled involuntarily at the ticklish skimming across his chest. He leaned in and spoke more softly. “Just don’t stab yourself, alright?”

John swallowed hard and felt his heart pound. He nodded.

That was a yes. Alvis handed him the blade.

He placed his hand on the left side of his chest, and drew his finger back to the right with a light touch as he had seen Alvis do in the tunnels, again outside the mine entrance and lastly, for him, less than a minute before. The blade was sharp and it stung like the heat of a blaster had singed him. He grimaced but continued the cut. It was a little too long now and he watched the blood drip with an open mouth. He’d never felt faint at the sight of blood but there was a light-headedness now that he couldn’t explain. Looking up he met Alvis’s somber stare and licked his lips.

“Shouldn’t you be kneeling?”

Alvis only hesitated a moment before he did so, and John spoke.

“And the roots grew deep from the mother tree to protect us all.”

He ran his thumb across the cut and with the blood anointed both eyelids as Alvis crouched at his feet.

“And the roots grew deep.” His eyes stayed shut and John marveled at the bright red that began to dull from a glistening color to something like paint. His eyes opened sharply; everything seemed more deliberate with him. It surprised John when he grappled for a hand up.

“How did it feel?”

“Different.”

“Did you feel the faith?” The words sounded like acid, like heresy and mockery combined. They tasted insincere.

“No.” John held the blade up and looked at the fresh cuts on Alvis’s chest. “Just different.” He didn’t think. With a quick intake of breath he made another incision, below the first, the cut running through the congealing blood dripping down him. He hissed at the pain, shuddered at the odd pleasure he found in it while Alvis just stood watching mutely. He saw stars, the sky was a crimson sculpture of planetary dust, pinpricks of light broke through as his mind went completely blank. When he opened his eyes, wanting to watch the blood run, he found himself trying to catch his breath and supporting himself by gripping Alvis’s arm tightly. Thankfully he’d grabbed the monk with his left hand.

“Oh, Mother.”

“You’d make a horrible scarback. You’re not supposed to show the pleasure you feel. Defeats the purpose.” He was leaning in, whispering again. So John kissed his stupid mouth.

He grabbed the side of Alvis’s face, curling his fingers around his jawline to manipulate the movement of their mouths. Alvis held John’s right wrist tightly, pushing the bladed finger away from any soft part, to prevent any accidental probing. With a fumbling twist, the blade fell off and to the floor.

It stung his fresh cuts when their chests collided, but he relished it. He grimaced at his the slight pull of chest hair, tugging at the cuts. It focused him in a way that itched, like he wanted to slightly extend the irritation— having sex around broken ribs or the new scar on his stomach was completely different than this.

Alvis ran his fingers down the light pink mark above John’s belly button, still nuzzling his face. “Is it weird?” He asked.

John turned his face away. “Not weirder than any of the others.”

Alvis nibbled at his ear and John thought the scratch of the monk’s stubble was irritating more than anything else. Until Alvis actually bit him. John jerked away, holding a hand to his ear, contorting his face in confusion for a moment. Alvis just kept the same sober look he always had on him. John slowly lowered his hand.

Alvis began to pull at the skin on John’s neck, sucking and running his teeth across the corded muscle there. His mouth buzzed when John chuckled.

“What?”

“You trying not to leave a mark or something?” John smirked.

Alvis paused and then sank his teeth into John’s shoulder. He let out a sharp yell that turned into a groan as he bit his lip. The jolt of pain pulsed through his body, chased by a rush. He pushed Alvis against the bar, hard.

“Bastard,” he said, and kissed him again, rougher. He ran his nails over the countless marks, aggravating the skin and grinding against Alvis.

Alvis yanked John’s head back and scraped his exposed neck with teeth, sinking down on bent knee, past the collarbones, rasping at the cuts with his fingers, and pulled his pants down in one jerk.

He shook his head at John’s dick, standing at half-mast and glanced up, a joke glinting in his eye. “You’d make a terrible scarback,” he said and took him in his mouth.

John gave a little grunt as the monk began his ministrations. He hummed a little self-satisfied laugh and reached for Alvis’s last shot. He slung it back and coughed, tasting a lick of iron and salt. That wasn’t the best taste.

Still, running a hand over Alvis’s weird braids, it made him more curious. Tasting a tang— _oh Mother_ — after getting punched in the mouth was not— _oh bless the Trees, the monk can_ suck!

John pushed Alvis off and tilted his head up. “What turns you on?”

Alvis didn’t answer, rising and silencing John with another kiss, pulling their bodies close again. The loose yellow pants didn’t hide anything. John could feel Alvis’s erection pressing against him through the fabric, which kinda itched against wet and sensitive skin. So he stuck his hand down Alvis’s pants.

Alvis panted and moaned into the shoulder he’d bitten John on, running his fingers down John’s arms, scratching barely, while John egged him on, pulling, pulling, pulling.

Alvis still wasn’t much of a talker, but the noises and the biting were really making John delerious. He cupped Alvis’s head, pulling him closer and stroked him.

“John.” Stubble scraped against as Avlis whispered in his ear.

“Get your fucking pants off already.”

Within seconds, they were moving together, humping against each other. Sweat slick and sticky spit, John dug his nails into Alvis’s back and barely could construct the thought that recognized Alvis was tugging the fresh cuts open by the hair on his chest. John groaned, feeling the pent up pressure inside him come to a release, and bit his lip so hard he tasted blood.

John slung his arms around Alvis’s neck and nuzzled at him.

“We’ve made quite a mess,” John said. “We should probably clean this up before we—”

Alvis broke John’s grasp and grabbed him by the neck. “How about we fuck on the dirty floor?”

John pursed his lips, and the look of deep thought on his face was adorable. He nodded. “Yeah, yeah, we could do that.” He pointed to the glint of metal on the floor. “Mind cleaning that for me?”

Alvis dashed a shot of hokk into his glass, swirled the blade in it and then slung the shot bad.

John grimaced. “Dude.”

Alvis moved toward him, sober look back, eyes a little menacing. “Lie down,” he said. He straddled John, picked up his hand and slipped the blade onto his finger. “Be careful where you cut. We don’t want you to get an infection.”

“Dude, this floor is actually dirty. Does Pree not sweep?”

Alvis put a hand on John's throat and kissed him into the ground.

* * *

D’avin picked up the broom, double checking the time. _Pre-lunch slowdown is the best time. The more often you sweep, the sweeter—_

He swatted the nagging voice out of his head. Heading for the backdoor of the Royale he heard the unmistakable moaning of a man having sex, or being sexed as was more likely the case. _Tell me they aren’t using the bar for work._ He stopped a moment, rubbing his forehead. He was too tired for this shit. _Best to just tell them off._ So he continued unconcernedly down the hall, gripping his broom like a martial staff.

He heard the unmistakable slap of flesh against flesh, and suddenly realized that the voice, though it was moaning, sounded familiar. He slowed down. It was probably just one of the sexer’s he’d heard _so much_ of in the past week.

_Maybe someone got permission from Pree to use the bar._

_More for me to clean up later._ He groaned.

He peered around the corner and saw two men, one on his elbows and knees, the other rutting into him, religious beads jangling around his neck. Recognizing Alvis as the man kneeling behind the other was enough to make him step back and head away, but at that moment Alvis pulled the other man’s head up by his hair and he saw something he’d hoped he’d never witness. John in the throes of sex.

He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

* * *

Alvis bent over to whisper in John’s ear. “If you’re going cut yourself, do it now,” Alvis said.

Propping himself up further, John made a third line, blood blossoming as he dug into the skin above the other two. Alvis gripped John’s shoulder, the one he’d bitten into, and groaned loudly. The burst of pain and pleasure was like a super nova had caught itself in the anesthesia cobwebs he couldn’t shake. Bright light shook him, John wasn’t far behind.

Semen spurted onto the floor, and though his eyes were dazzled, he could make out a few dark drops of blood. His head dropped, and he felt like collapsing as soon as Alvis pulled out of him. Instead, Alvis caught him and rolled him onto his back before he landed on his stomach.

“Like you said, it’s a dirty floor.”

Slowly, too fast, he came back down. There was no gentle waking up to the real world. There was no sleeping on the floor of the royale. John opened his eyes to find Alvis sitting on him holding bandaging and Pawter’s cauterizer.

“Thought I’d leave the choice up to you.”

John idly ran his fingers across the cuts, already crusty and scabbing over. The ones on Alvis’s chest would remain untended, open to the air unless they became a source for worry. John had cleaned up many cuts before, abrasions, wounds and scrapes. The matching lines made his stomach flip.

“Give me that.” He reached out a hand.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for rough sex, cutting, self-injury, blood and knives.


End file.
